


in search of perfect (when you had it with you all along)

by saplingsparrow



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: A little bit of gore I guess, Angst, Frustrated ghost Ryan, Ghost Ryan Bergara, Hurt/Comfort, I cried while writing this, M/M, Not really though, Slow Burn, Tags to be added, Well a bit of comfort, and i mean VERY slow burn, i wrote this instead of socialising, im so sorry, it is my intention that you will cry too, oblivious skeptic shane
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-03-26 11:49:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19005205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saplingsparrow/pseuds/saplingsparrow
Summary: It had started when he woke up in the middle of the night, sweating from an instantly forgotten nightmare. Even then, room shrouded in dark, he had felt an overwhelming sense that something waswrong. He just couldn’t quite put his finger on what.Ryan Bergara was supposed to live a long, fulfilling life. And yet here he was, killed in a hit and run, trapped between the world of the living and the world of the dead. Unable to move on until he completes his business on Earth, he must first find someone to help him with his final task. The problem? The only person who can help is the biggest skeptic to ever live.





	1. i hope i never lose the bruises that you left behind

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have the utmost respect for Shane and Ryan and their respective relationships. I have no intent to cause any harm to either them or their partners. 
> 
> So, uh, hi! This is my first BFU fic, and also my first RPF, so I’m pretty nervous about putting this one out into the world. I’m planning on this being quite a long one but I’m not quite sure just how long yet. Anyway, that’s enough from me! I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Title taken from One by Lewis Capaldi (great song and great album, please give it a listen if you get the chance!)

Ryan exhaled, his breath steaming up the freezing bus window. He rested his head against it briefly, hoping that the position might even be comfortable enough to allow him to drift into the warm haze of sleep, but the incessant vibrations began to give him a headache. Shifting again in his seat, he yawned widely and gazed back out vaguely, watching idly as the streets rushed past. The night was dark, inky black, punctuated only by dotted street lights that slipped past and vanished into the distance. 

His thoughts drifted, spinning away from his grasp, and with this fog of tiredness slowing him down, he couldn’t quite catch them. God, he wished he could sleep. But any time his eyes closed, he saw that pale, smoky figure hovering in the doorway. Barely more than vapour, so thin he could see right through it, but there. Proof, after all these years. Why hadn’t he realised it would be this unsettling? 

The bus screeched to a halt on a narrow strip of shuttered shops, a few blocks from his apartment building. He rose from his seat, hoisted his bag over his shoulder and moved towards the door, grimacing slightly at the pain in his foot. Had Shane got that on tape? He had, hadn’t he?

_“Ryan, you okay there buddy?” Genuine concern flashed across Shane’s face. Ryan was tempted to say no, no he wasn’t, so that he would stop filming for one goddamn second and let them be alone together, just for a little while. Instead, he nodded and laughed nervously, as though allowing teasing to become fair game again. The other man raised his eyebrows, asking for confirmation, before responding._

_“Woah, did you just get pushed by a ghost?”_

_“Shut up Shane.”_

If falling down the stairs barely ten minutes into the reportedly ridiculously haunted house wasn’t a sign, he didn’t know what was. No, to call it a sign was a severe understatement. More of a giant fucking barricade with “Get out, murderous ghosts ahead!” scrawled in blood. Maybe some flashing red lights too. 

But he’d felt like he was getting braver. There was this strange urge, a push to keep going where there hadn’t been before. Recently, he’d been the first one into haunted locations, the one to suggest alone time with the spirit box, the one to turn out his flashlight despite it being pitch black and being scared out of his mind, just to increase the chances of contact. He had been growing stronger, he was sure of it. If any of that shit had happened in the Sallie house, he would have fucked off so fast there would be burn marks in the carpet. But he didn’t. He stayed. And that was his undoing.

The night was surprisingly warm compared to the bone chilling temperatures in Portland. Shane hadn’t been too keen on the idea of purposely seeking out colder weather, but Ryan had insisted on this particular investigation. The old manor had always had its fair share of resident ghouls, but ever since the recent addition of a modern extension spreading across a portion of the vast garden, sightings had been off the charts. And so they had boarded a plane on a sunny Wednesday, Ryan anxiously reviewing pages of research on his laptop, and had emerged to drizzle and cold. Shane had been less than impressed. 

_Shane._ The thought of his friend sent a dull ache reverberating through his chest. Ryan had been stupid to just leave him like that at the airport, no matter how pissed he was. The guy would be worried. He hesitated, before reaching for his phone to drop him a text, just to let him know he had got home safe. They could resolve this dumb argument in the morning.

But it was three am. He was tired. He was distracted. It was three am, and fate was hovering near as he stepped towards the busy road, phone in hand. Watching. Nothing more. 

Until the right moment came. 

And so he stepped out onto the road just a fraction of a second too soon, so the driver decided to run the red light, so Ryan hit send and looked up just in time to see a horrified face staring back at him. 

And then nothing at all. 

 

He was pronounced dead thirteen minutes later. 

 

There was a strange feeling hanging around Shane’s apartment. He was sure of it. 

It had started when he woke up in the middle of the night, sweating from an instantly forgotten nightmare. Even then, room shrouded in dark, he had felt an overwhelming sense that something was _wrong_. He just couldn’t quite put his finger on what. 

Then, when his alarm had gone off at six, the same feeling had been there. Frowning, he swung his arm in the general direction of his bedside table in an attempt to silence the awful shrieking noise. He wasn’t quite she why he put up with it, but the novelty clock was beginning to grow on him; Mothman themed, a Christmas gift from Ryan. He smiled at the memory, and just how close he had been to hurling it at his face the moment he unwrapped it. 

That must be it. Why he was feeling so off. He must still be angry from the day before. Of course, he wasn’t really angry. They’d both been exhausted, and irritable, and it wasn’t hugely uncommon for them to get snappish with each other after a long night of filming. He’d buy Ryan a coffee to make up for it. 

He leaned back in bed and groaned. He hadn’t felt this tired in a long time. Maybe he’d close his eyes, just for a few more minutes...

And just like that it was eight already. 

Rising and making his way quickly towards the kitchen, he grabbed his phone and checked his notifications. A few emails. A missed call from TJ. Huh, that was odd. He’d have to bring it up with him later. Right at the bottom of the screen, there was a text from Ryan, at 3:26 am. Swiping it open, he read;

_Ryan_

_Hey Shane. Sorry about what I said earlier. I didn’t mean it. I’m tired and shaken up and I know it’s not an excuse, but I really am sorry. Just letting you know I’m home safe. See you tomorrow._

He smiled. The idiot, he really believed he was in any way mad.

And then there it was, that feeling again. So strong it sent a shudder right through him. Brushing it off, he grabbed a slice of toast and moved towards the door, casting one last suspicious look at the empty room before he left. 

 

Traffic was light, much to his relief. He might just make it on time. He reached for his phone to check those undoubtedly mind numbing emails, but he didn’t feel the reassuring weight of cold metal against his fingertips. Groaning at the realisation it was still on his kitchen counter, he instead elected to stare awkwardly out of the window. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands. 

The Lyft pulled up outside Buzzfeed just a few minutes before his shift was due to begin. That coffee would have to wait. He thanked the driver and power walked to the entrance, glancing at his watch. 

He had expected to be greeted by a couple of dumb jokes from Ryan, or at the very least the general office hubbub. Not hushed whispers and pointed stares.

He didn’t flinch at the hand on his shoulder. 

He didn’t ask any stupid questions when he was drawn into a too-quiet office. 

He didn’t react when he was told the news. The horrific, earth shattering, world ending news that threw everything off its axis and pressed hard against his lungs, that made it so incredibly difficult to breathe-

No, he didn’t react. Not in any way that could be seen. 

But somewhere just below his heart, he felt something break.


	2. every breath that i’ve been taking since you left feels like a waste on me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! ~~This chapter is ugly and I despise it with every fibre of my being~~ here’s chapter two!

The funeral was awful. For once in his life, Shane had nothing to say. He tried to, he really did, to Ryan’s mom, to his brother, to his friends from college, but every time he opened his mouth the words choked and died in his throat. 

He couldn’t bear to look at the coffin. Maybe some part of him still thought that if he ignored it, if he pretended nothing was wrong, then perhaps it would all go back to the way it was, and that long wooden box resting on the table was irrefutable proof that the worst thing imaginable really had come to pass. 

Standing in that cold, echoing church, so incredibly alone despite the swarm of people, he wanted nothing more than to go home.

Ryan’s parents had asked him if he would like to give a eulogy. At the time, he had accepted without further thought; of course he wanted to. A chance to say goodbye, he supposed. Maybe it would help to ease this awful, empty nothingness that he felt. 

He had spent the last five days sitting alone in his apartment, staring at his computer. Typing, deleting, over and over, pouring his thoughts onto the page and clearing them away just as quickly. Every anecdote, every memory, felt like a shard of glass in his throat. Even just remembering Ryan’s smile, like a slice of captured sunlight, tore viciously at his chest. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. 

But it wasn’t like he had any other choice. 

And so he stood at the lectern, facing the sea of faces. So many people. Of course, he thought, how could it be anything but? It was _Ryan_ , for God’s sake, there wasn’t a person alive who could come into contact with him and not instantly care for him. He picked out those he recognised, co-workers, family members he had come into contact with over the years, friends, acquaintances, associates- 

So many faces. 

He cleared his throat. 

And began. 

 

It was one of the warmest days of the year. 

It was strange. It felt like it should have been raining, snowing, overcast, as though nature itself should be mourning the loss of Ryan- and yet it felt almost celebratory. Even from the graveyard, he could hear the shouts of children and laughter in the distance. 

It was like the world had broken somehow. How could people still be going about their lives like nothing had changed, when everything had crashed and burned, when the Earth so clearly had a gaping hole in the surface? When the universe was missing the kindest, brightest, warmest person it held? How could they go on when he wasn’t there? How could he go on? 

The church was long since empty but still a few clusters of people hovered near the fresh mound of dirt, speaking in tones barely above a whisper. 

Amongst the crumbling monuments and shining granite, a newly cut stone sat, protruding from the ground. Shane stared at it, struggling to connect the name engraved to this sad, desolate place. How did he end up here, among the dead? 

God, he hated this. 

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see an older woman standing behind him. Ryan’s mom. 

“Thank you for coming. I know how close you two were and I think... I think he would really have wanted you here.” 

Shane searched for the words but there was nothing there. Instead, he simply nodded, and shook her hand. Aware that he couldn’t just leave it at that, he forced himself to speak. To say something, _anything-_

“I’m so sorry, Mrs Bergara.”

“I’m sorry too.” 

They stared at each other, but it was not uncomfortable; rather, it was in some semblance of understanding. Tears began to form in his eyes, for the first time since-

That was it. He couldn’t bear it any longer. 

So he turned and walked away, with one last glance at the grave behind him. 

 

When Ryan woke, the first thing he noticed was the sky. 

There was something different about the clouds, how picture-book perfect they were, in that they could almost have been stolen straight from a dream. 

But it was light outside.

Light? Hadn’t it been the middle of the night just seconds ago? 

And that was when the pain started. It wasn’t much to begin with, just a dull ache, creeping out from the inside of his bones and spreading to the surface of his skin. Then slowly, so gradually he didn’t even notice it, the ache blossomed into a burning sensation, mild at first but constantly growing, building into intensity. Until eventually, his body felt as though it was on fire. 

Ryan cried out. 

He was burning and he was drowning and he was dying. 

Then suddenly he wasn’t. 

Doubled over and gasping for air, he looked up at his unfamiliar surroundings. But, he saw with a relieving certainty, they weren’t all that unfamiliar. 

He was in Shane’s apartment. 

Mind reeling and questions blooming quicker than he could come up with answers, he moved towards the door in hope that his friend would be nearby and could explain everything. In spite of loving a strange, outlandish theory, all he wanted now was a nice, logical explanation. 

Shane wasn’t in the living room, nor the kitchen, nor the bathroom that was still shockingly large for LA. He hesitated by the door to his bedroom, not entirely willing to burst in on a sleeping Shane. Then, from the room came a horrific shrieking noise, causing Ryan to jump a good foot off the ground. 

“Shane?” He shouted, reaching for the handle and immediately finding himself on the other side of the door. Confused, he spun back to see it was shut behind him. What the hell was going on? 

Hearing a groan from behind him, he looked back to see a slowly waking Shane, next to that Mothman alarm clock he’d bought him the previous year. Relieved to see that his friend wasn’t the source of the (quite frankly terrifying) wailing, and amused that his Christmas present had had the intended effect, he moved towards him. 

“Shane, what the hell is going on?”

Shane slapped the alarm off and slid back down into bed, closing his eyes. 

“No, don’t ignore me, don’t-”

But a strange black cloud was forming at the corners of his vision, and before he could say another word he had slipped into oblivion. 

 

The next thing he knew he was back to consciousness, staring vacantly at Shane’s toaster. He blinked several times, attempting to regain control over his thoughts. 

A loud crash came from the hallway beyond the kitchen, and Ryan spun round to look for the source of the noise. He didn’t have to look far. 

Shane burst in, phone in hand, and fumbled in a cupboard for a slice of bread. 

“Shane! What’s going on? Why aren’t you-”

There was no response. He simply jammed the bread into the toaster and continued to scroll through his phone. 

“Stop ignoring me! This isn’t- this isn’t funny, whatever joke you’re playing just stop it!” He could feel himself slipping into panic, but he couldn’t stop himself. This was scaring the living shit out of him, and even though logic was telling him this was some kind of fucked up video idea, or even better, a dream, he still couldn’t help but spiral. 

Again, he did not reply. 

“Shane? Shane?” Ryan stumbled towards him, reaching his arm to grab his shoulder, in a desperate attempt to get his attention-

And it passed straight through. 

The darkness came back for him again, and this time Ryan did not protest. 

 

The next time he woke, he couldn’t breathe. 

The room was tipping alarmingly, and he barely kept himself upright, disoriented and confused and absolutely terrified. He tried to get a handle on his breathing, tried in vain to calm himself down-

But his hand had gone right through him. 

No. This wasn’t real, this couldn’t be real. This was just a dream. A nightmare. That was all it was and he simply had to wake up and it would all disappear, melt away into a half-memory and an anecdote to tell Shane about in the morning. And then he would laugh and call him a dumbass for believing for even a fraction of a second that he was a ghost. 

He was being ridiculous. It was _just a nightmare,_ fuelled by all the horrifying research he’d been doing over the past few weeks. Nothing more. 

Of course, he’d had nightmares before, but never one anywhere near this vivid. Unless it wasn’t a nightmare. 

_Shut up, theory brain_ , Ryan thought, _accept the rational explanation just this once._

The front door swung open, revealing none other than Shane, dressed rather jarringly in a black suit and tie. 

God, he looked _awful;_ his face pale and gaunt, sharply contrasting with the large, dark circles beneath his eyes. Ryan had never seen him like this before, not even after he had spent the whole night waking him up with incessant chatter at a haunted location, not even the time he had got properly sick and had been stuck at home for a week. 

This time, Ryan didn’t call out to him. He watched silently as Shane leaned against the wall and inhaled deeply. As his composure snapped, all alone, and the tears came, in huge shaking sobs that wracked his whole body. 

_It’s just a dream_ , he reminded himself. _Just a dream just a dream just a dream._

He was grateful for the mantra. If he wasn’t so certain he was right, he didn’t know if he would have been able to cope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italic and hyphen overuse who


	3. i’m only honest when it rains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s chapter three! This time, shockingly, the chapter title is _not_ Lewis Capaldi, but instead taken from Neptune by Sleeping At Last. Hope you enjoy! Also! Thank you so much for all the lovely comments, they’ve really kept me motivated and excited to write this fic!

Alright. Maybe he was wrong.

Over the years, working with the stubborn force of nature that was Shane Alexander Madej, Ryan had learned when to concede defeat. And spending what felt like eternity in this frustrating limbo was probably one of those times. 

Not a dream then. Unless it was an extremely vivid, apparently endless dream spanning multiple story arcs and featuring a semi-coherent plot, then he would have to come up with a new theory. 

His mind took the not unreasonable jump to consider the idea that he was in a coma, but something in the very back of his mind whispered something different altogether.

 _No,_ it said. _You know what this is._

But God, he didn’t want it to be that. He couldn’t bear it. 

He almost laughed at the sheer irony. Here he was, faced with the most irrefutable proof he had ever seen, and he had become a Shaniac. He could really use a simple explanation right about now. 

Lord knows he had longed for evidence, something concrete and solid to tell him that he was right and always had been, but not like this. Not like this. 

He wasn’t quite sure where to go from there. It wasn’t like you could just choose to wake up from a coma, was it? And it was definitely difficult to just stop being a ghost. 

He needed to talk to Shane. So fucking badly. But nothing he said ever seemed to get through this seemingly impenetrable barrier between them. And every second he spent stuck in this apartment, cut off from everyone he had ever know, he felt himself drifting further and further from himself. 

If he didn’t do something now, then maybe it wouldn’t be long before he didn’t have the choice anymore. 

It was taking him a lot longer than he would have like to adjust to his general non-corporealness. He frequently found himself attempting to lean against a wall only to fall through it, and had, on multiple occasions, accidentally walked straight through Shane. The other man didn’t seem to acknowledge it, simply shuddering and continuing with whatever it was he was doing (more often than not, Ryan was pained to note, it wasn’t much at all). 

At least he hadn’t broken down completely, not since that first day or so in the hallway. That black suit and tie...

_You know what this is._

Brushing the thought away, just as he had every other time it had surfaced before, he turned his mind towards the strange passage of time. 

It seemed to be mostly chronological, at least as far as he could tell, but his occasional glimpses at clocks and calendars seemed to confirm his hypothesis that there were massive chunks missing. Sometimes hours passed when it should have been minutes, simple things like that, but others that terrifying darkness obscured him and he woke in another day. Another week, once. 

The last memory he was sure he could fully trust had been real was walking down a street in the empty hours following midnight, streetlights flickering, phone in hand. That had been... February? The second, maybe the third? And if the calendar on Shane’s phone was correct, it was currently the 25th February. Twenty-two days. Three weeks. He’d been floating in this unbearable purgatory for three goddamn weeks, and he was still no closer to figuring out how to get out. If he’d known the afterlife would be so boring, he wouldn’t have bothered coming. 

Smiling at the opportunity to make a quip, he turned, lips parted, to tell Shane, but there was only empty air. He felt a sharp twist in his stomach. 

Unable to stand the silence and inactivity any longer, he set off in the general direction of the kitchen, wondering what his friend was doing. It was funny; barely a day after waking up for the first time, he had realised that he could not exist when Shane was gone. The moment he exited the apartment, Ryan found himself slipping into unconscious again. He had tried on several occasions to follow him, and although he had not been met by the physical barrier he was expecting, he could only catch a glimpse of the corridor before the same thing happened. He was getting used to the darkness now. It was beginning to become almost comforting. 

The pain had come back a few times too; just once or twice, so intense that he could barely stay standing despite his best efforts, but subsided so fast he nearly forgot it had happened in the first place. Still, it wasn’t pleasant. He wondered vaguely what was causing it. Maybe it was just a ghost thing. 

So. He was set on this ghost idea, after all. He might as well make a decision at some point about which theory to pursue, and part of him knew that his mind had been made up since the very first day. 

Entering through the open doorway, he immediately spotted Shane sitting at the table, laptop open. Sighing, Ryan trudged over and joined him. 

It had become a habit of his, over these past few weeks. It was pointless, Ryan knew that, but it felt kind of nice. Maybe the closest thing to normal he had, and if he had ever needed something to cling to, it was now. 

“Uh, hey, Shane. I know you can’t hear me, and I know I always say that, but I guess I keep sort of hoping you can. Like maybe you’ll look up at me and ask me what I’m talking about, that of course you can hear me, that you’re not deaf. I don’t know, it’s stupid, but-”

He took a deep breath. 

“-but I just miss you. Even though you’re right there, it’s impossible to not miss your voice. I haven’t heard you speak, since I got here. And I miss your dumb jokes, and your ridiculous fucking laugh, _God,_ I miss how you used to calm me down, and I need that more than ever now but you can’t give me that. Don’t even know I’m here.” 

The tears started to come, welling in his eyes. 

“You know, sometimes I think I’m being punished. That I did die, and this is hell. Where I’m so close to you, and I can’t communicate with you, and I just stay here until I lose my mind. Honestly, I know that doesn’t seem right, but I can’t help thinking it. And, uh, I want to say this now, since you can’t hear what I’m saying, but I really, really want one of your ‘It’s just the wind’ excuses. Proof sucks, alright, I admit it. I’d give everything back if I could just be back at home with you again. Every little shred of evidence we collected over the years, the torch, the ball, this- especially this. I’d give back all the fame, all the success, everything. I just don’t wanna be here anymore.” 

He inhaled a ragged breath, head in hands, and he started to cry. 

And he didn’t stop until the darkness returned. 

 

When he opened his eyes again, he was sitting curled up in the corner of Shane’s bedroom, moonlight filtering through the closed curtain. Pushing himself to his feet, he noticed with a stab of concern that the bed had not been slept in. 

Moving instinctively, he found himself in the living room. Shane was lying sprawled out on his couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His face was blank, expressionless, and in his hands he clutched a grey hoodie. 

It looked pretty unassuming at a first glance, but at a closer look Ryan realised he recognised it; it was his. He’d had it for a good few years, but had never particularly thought much about it. After all, it was just a hoodie. 

A hoodie which now had dried blood on the collar. 

The memory slammed into him so suddenly he struggled for breath. The streets had been so quiet but the roads so busy, and he had been _so sure_ the light had gone red. He had stepped off the pavement, focus scattered, and looked up to see that shocked, haunting face, wide-eyed and terrified. And then came the pain, _oh, the pain,_ like nothing he had ever felt before, burning and aching. Then the dark, brief but sweet, before the lights flicked back on. 

The awful fact was, he had not died instantly. He had lain there on the ground for four minutes, waiting for someone to come, but no one ever did. His last sight had not been the face of his reluctant killer, but of blood slowly spreading across his well worn sweater, and the absence of stars above his head. 

Shaking, he dropped onto a torn armchair and placed his head in his hands. This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t. 

He looked up. 

Shane was still lying there, barely moving but for his hands, his thumbs caressing the fabric in small circles. Ryan stared. He could feel his heart slowly breaking into small pieces with every second he watched. There was something unnerving in the repetition of his movements, like a broken record, but was was most painful was his dull eyes. There was nothing behind them, not any longer. 

He couldn’t let his friend suffer like this. If this was no longer for his gain, then fine, for Shane’s. He had it find some way of letting him know he was still there. That he wasn’t totally gone, not yet at least. Maybe there was even a way back. If there was, he would find it. 

For them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by my English teacher, who apparently cannot tell the difference between the reflective essay I was supposed to be writing and the sad gay fan fiction I was actually writing.


	4. maybe my heart needs to break to be sure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! I am so, so sorry that it’s taken me this long to update!! things just started piling up very quickly and by the time I had time to actually do some writing, writer’s block had struck :/ anyway, from now on I’m going to do my best to update as regularly as I can!
> 
> also, please come and scream at me over on my shiny new tumblr @evetriestowrite
> 
> chapter title taken from four by sleeping at last

Shane didn’t know what else to do. 

Really, he didn’t. He couldn’t stay here, in this increasingly cluttered apartment that still felt so empty, couldn’t let his mind wander for fear it would stumble upon something he would rather forget. Some things were easier to leave behind.

So he emailed Devon, told her he was ready to come back, that he was fine. That he could cope. 

And then he remembered that they hadn’t even begun to talk about what would happen to Unsolved. He couldn’t keep going, could he? Not without Ryan. Not with the painfully obvious gap that would be so prevalent in every scene. Not without the person who had started this whole thing, who had grown it so carefully and with so much love. 

He felt sick. 

No, best leave it behind. Best ignore it, stop thinking about it, and maybe then the pain would dull, this weight in his chest would lighten. Working would take his mind off it. If he just had something to focus on, he could start to move on. 

He received a reply less than ten minutes later, asking if he was certain and reminding him he could take all the time he needed, but Shane was insistent. He wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life thinking about it. He was going to move on, whether he was ready or not. 

And he would start by clearing out his apartment. 

Over the past couple of weeks, the characteristically untidy place had become completely and utterly disgusting. Dirty plates and cups littered every conceivable surface, clothes were strewn around his bedroom, and large brown cardboard boxes were stacked up, overflowing with bits and pieces he had gathered over the years. 

Put simply, it was a mess. 

He wasn’t quite sure he could bear it for much longer, all of this clutter. It felt a little like it was choking him, suffocating him further within these four walls. Everything just felt like it was a bit too _much._

It was raining by the time he began. Huge sheets of it, cascading down his windows. The sound was almost comforting, he admitted. It made him feel a little less alone. 

He shouldn’t be alone. He knew that, of course he did. Everyone kept inviting him to spend time with them, trying to force him outside of his apartment, but he refused. It had become almost a point of pride for him, something stubborn about his ways that he hated to recognise in himself. 

These thoughts accompanied him as her piled up the dishes, carried them to the sink, scrubbed them clean. The movements, slow and repetitive, were almost relaxing. Not that he’d say that out loud. Not that he’d admit that these small acts he’d been putting off were doing him more good than harm.

Once the dishes were clean, dried, and stacked neatly away, he started on the laundry. His room was awful, too, and he tidied it up a little, made his bed. It wasn’t much, really, but it was a start. That was enough for him, for now at least. The semblance of order cleared his head. 

He was folding away the last of the first load of laundry when his restless eyes settled on a box that had been crammed unceremoniously into a corner. It was piled high, fuller than the other boxes that he had never got around to unpacking. Even from the opposite side of the room, he could see a few items he vaguely recognised, clothes draped over the edge, trinkets buried in the mountain of discarded items. 

Dropping the clothes basket, he wandered across to it in an attempt to satisfy his curiosity. Lying at the very top of the pile was a jersey. One that triggered a memory inside him so strong, for a moment he thought he was drowning. 

_”Dude, hurry up.”_

_”Calm down, Ry, I’m coming.”_

_Shane carried the overflowing bowl of popcorn carefully across the room and settled on the sofa beside the other man. Ryan was wearing that basketball jersey again, the hideous purple one with the gaudy yellow trimming. Still, Shane couldn’t quite help but admit that there was something quite endearing about it, something about the way it fit him just right. Looking closer, he could see that it was already showing the signs of wear, despite him being absolutely certain that Ryan had only bought it a month ago, at that shop he’d dragged him along to. Perhaps he had a collection of identical jerseys, and he rotated them about. Maybe that would explain the fact that he never seemed to wear anything else._

_It was around this time that he realised he was still staring at his best friend’s chest._

_He looked up, a faintly amused smile on his face, to lock eyes with Ryan, who was staring back, utterly confused._

_”What?”_

_”Nothing.”_

_”Come on, just tell me.”_

_”It’s nothing, Ry, I promise. Start the movie.”_

Shane was jolted back to the present very suddenly and without warning. His breathing was heavy and ragged, and he wasn’t quite able to catch the right amount of air. 

This jersey was exactly the same, he was certain of it. The colours, the faded label; it wasn’t any different to the last time he’d seen Ryan wearing it, back on that unusually cold October day last year. He must have left it here, somehow, after a night of watching movies and avoiding work. 

He dropped it to the floor quickly, like he had been burned by it. The memory suddenly hurt a little too much, hit a little too close to home. 

He pushed it away from him with his foot, and continued to sift through the items. It was a jumble of all kinds of objects, books and clothes and shoes, ornaments and stupid gag gifts that he’d completely forgotten about. An utterly random collection, but it seemed to be held together by one thread;

_Ryan._

Every object just seemed to burst with him. A pair of sneakers he’d left at Shane’s apartment, that time they’d stayed up all night researching and Ryan had fallen asleep on the couch. A book he’d passed on to Shane, dog-eared and torn, which he’d never quite got round to reading. Even the things that didn’t belong to him- that ugly snow globe Shane had carted from apartment to apartment as a sort of private joke, until Ryan had asked about it the first time he’d visited Shane’s. It had become another little tie between the two as they first bonded, an icebreaker. The first Christmas present they’d ever gotten each other had been nearly identical to this one, back when they’d been little more than desk neighbours. 

Shane didn’t quite know what to do with it all. 

He couldn’t keep it, that much he was certain of. It would be too much, too painful. He wasn’t sure he was ready to part with it either, though, not yet. 

It was all so much. So, so much. He knew it was stupid, that they were just _things_ , that they couldn’t hurt him. But they almost seemed to be pushing down on him, crushing him, choking him. 

The decision was completely spontaneous. 

He found a post-it note and scribbled a hasty sentence explaining that people were free to take what they liked. Grabbing it in both arms, he hauled in through the hallway and out into the corridor, leaving it in clear sight of other residents. 

And that was it. 

Gone. 

The feeling was bittersweet. It was like a huge weight had vanished, but the memories still lingered, just out of sight, reminding him of everything he had lost. 

The moment he was back inside the safety of his apartment, he leaned his head against the wall, in a desperate attempt to calm himself down. He hadn’t cried, not since the funeral, and a part of him was strongly determined to never do it again. He wasn’t sure he could cope, all of these emotions escaping out into the open, completely out of his control. 

He wasn’t sure that, if he started, he would ever be able to stop. 

So he forced everything back. Pushed it down as deep as he possibly could, hid it from sight. It was better this way, he thought to himself. At least it hurt less, for now. 

With one last deep sigh, he turned around to face the rest of the room. For a brief moment, he was actually pleased with what he had achieved. Everything seemed a little calmer now that the chaos had been tamed slightly. 

And then, in the corner of his eye, he spotted it. 

The hoodie.

He paced quickly towards it, picked it up, examined it. This was the worst of all. This was the hoodie that Ryan had been wearing when he-

_Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it._

Ryan’s brother had dropped it off a few days previously. He’d been sorting through everything, and had noticed Shane’s name scrawled messily on the label. 

Not that Shane had worn it in a long time. Not since he’d actually been required to label his clothes. Ryan had found it in one of these perpetually unpacked boxes and had claimed it for himself, which Shane hadn’t complained about. If someone could get use out of it, what else was there to complain about? 

In fact, he’d almost forgotten it actually belonged to him. Neither of them had thought much about it, really. It wasn’t like it mattered. 

But the dried blood was a sharp reminder of the awful significance it had taken on. 

He thought of the previous night, and of the way he’d let himself slip briefly, let himself snap. 

He couldn’t afford to do that again. Not if he wanted to be ok again. 

The decision was as quick as the last one had been. He turned down and headed for the door, preparing to shove the hoodie into the box with everything else and be done with the whole thing. 

He rested his hand on the doorknob and pushed it open, but what came next happened so fast he barely registered it.

He took a step towards the entrance, before being shoved back violently, almost knocked over by the force of it. The door swung backwards a little, then slammed shut with a loud bang. 

Shane let the jumper slip from his hands. 

 

 

Ryan didn’t know how he did it. He couldn’t explain it. 

But something inside him had cried out, forced his feet forward, his hands out towards the door. 

Something had told him that the link had almost been broken. That everything he’d been counting on had almost slipped into oblivion. 

That his last shred of hope had almost disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone please tell Shane that this is _not_ a healthy coping mechanism


	5. in beauty there echoes a speck of our source

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sobbing this is completely incoherent but here you go
> 
> title taken from bad blood by sleeping at last

Enough was enough. Ryan was sick of waiting around, of praying for something to change. It was time for him to fix things for himself.

It had been three days since he’d somehow managed to slam the door shut on Shane, and yet absolutely nothing had changed. Despite the very obvious shock it had given him, Shane didn’t seem to be even slightly suspicious about what had happened. In fact, he’d hardly done anything at all; grumbled about the wind and returned to his cleaning. But curiously enough, he hadn’t put the hoodie out with the rest of the things. He’d kept it. It still swung over a chair in the living room, constantly catching Ryan’s eye. 

It was weird to think about. In this very strange, non-corporeal body (was body the right word? He wasn’t quite sure) he was still wearing that exact sweater. How exactly did that work? Really, was he wearing anything at all, come to think of it? 

_(There was still so much he didn’t know. Didn’t understand. Would never understand, almost certainly. It broke his heart a little.)_

Hadn’t he spent years of his life researching the supernatural? Wasn’t that his literal job? He had to have something that he could use, something to help him through this. Otherwise, what was the point? 

Boundaries. The thought occurred to him very suddenly one morning as he watched Shane struggling to lift an enormous stack of plates from the table to the sink. He had been unusually pleased to see his friend continuing to attempt to make his apartment habitable, rather than sitting on the sofa ignoring all of the mess. 

Boundaries, he thought, staring at the rush of running water from the tap. 

Boundaries...

The word floated around his brain, struggling to connect to any meaning. Then-

Fuck, of course. _Boundaries between pages, between shades of a colour._

That book. That book, whose title continued to elude him, which he had read from cover to cover in a single sitting. Seventeen, fuelled by nothing but caffeine and unadulterated terror. Desperate for answers. 

It had been the only book that hadn’t outright told him he was an idiot. It had provided a tiny splash of light on a subject that both horrified and intrigued him deeply, had stayed in his mind for a very long time. As a teenager, he’d thought frequently of both the book, and the author; names which had slipped into obscurity, then oblivion.

It had taught Ryan enough about ghosts to let him understand that they had some semblance of control over the physical world. His faith in it had been fading, to be honest, until he’d been able to exercise it himself, just a little. But now, there had to be things he could do, hadn’t there? Cold spots. Flickering the lights on and off... 

_(He’d never quite understood it, but the thing that had always intrigued him most about the paranormal was that oddly symbolic power that they seemed to hold over the parameters of light and dark, of coldness and warmth. It was beautiful, in a way, he supposed.)_

The day after he’d shut the door, his first and so far only contact with the real world, he’d been exhausted. Completely drained. It was funny, and almost indescribable; the energy that was missing from him wasn’t like any he’d ever remembered having in the first place. It was like all of his edges were blurring. He’d expected the darkness to come for him, once or twice, but it hadn’t yet. 

But now he thought a little more about it, maybe he could use this. Maybe he could put his knowledge into practice. If only he could remember that exact passage in that fucking book, the words that had been written...

Still, it was something, wasn’t it? Something he could work with. All he had to do now was focus. 

 

It was another three days before he created his first cold spot. The strength, mentally and physically (?) that it took to alter something in the real world was something he hadn’t really anticipated, and it had taken him a while to even wrap his head around the idea that he could do it. He’d spent a full day trying to find a little bit of reason in this complete and utter madness, tried to figure out how this bizarre logic worked. He’d always assumed that the sudden freezing cold that people reportedly felt doused in at haunted locations had been the act of a ghost passing through them, but now it seemed that it wasn’t the case. Touching Shane, even walking through him as he’d tried several times, produced no results. Either Shane was completely oblivious to the cold (doubtful) or that wasn’t what was going on at all. 

His second plan was ridiculous, even by his standards. He didn’t have a clue how to go about creating a cold spot, and he frequently felt his hands reaching out for his non-existent phone (god, how he missed yahoo! answers). The only idea that had come to him at all stemmed from the book. That one paragraph that he’d loved so much, he’d based his entire life around it. While now many years had passed and the exact phrases had faded into dust, he was certain that it had gone a little something like this:

“It would be foolish to imagine that there is only one plane of existence available for the soul to traverse. We, existing as mortals, struggle to cross the boundaries between pages, between the shades of each colour, but our physical bodies are not made to withstand the journey. What many refer to ignorantly as ‘spirits’ are nothing more than the receding energy of souls; souls which, given time, may have the ability to pass unflinchingly through borders we cannot navigate, and to experience the true depths of our universe’s existence.”

Pretentious as fuck, certainly. Truthful? That, he wasn’t entirely certain. The passage, which he had learned by heart as a terrified and morbidly fascinated teenager, had a strong chance of being nothing more than utter bullshit. 

He had to start somewhere, though, didn’t he? And if that somewhere involved trying to fuck with the spiritual realm, then he’d take it. 

The plan wasn’t even really much of a plan. It would more accurately be described as Ryan lying facedown on the floor. 

Shane was sitting nearby, staring at the TV with his eyes glazed over. It seemed a good a time as any; Tuesday afternoon, one of the sunniest days of the month, if the weather report had been correct. If he was going to do something entirely unexplainable, now was the moment. 

He positioned himself on the solid wooden floor that seemed to always be a couple of crucial millimetres beneath his grasp, screwed his eyes up tightly against the light, and breathed in deeply. One, two, three, four. Exhale. 

_Focus on what you want to do._

He pictured the deepest cold he could imagine. Something that reverberated far below the surface of his skin, chilled him to the bone. He pictured the sea, pictured falling into it; imagined himself being swallowed utterly by the dark expanse of the ocean and all that lay below it. 

And all of a sudden the imagining felt a lot more like drowning. The pictures that he made, that he saw, covered him without a trace. It was the most unusual feeling he’d ever experienced, but he couldn’t say that it was wholly unpleasant. It was almost like sinking, but not quite- a piece of him was still tethered to the surface, he could sense it tugging at his chest. The tugging grew, and grew, until it was mildly painful. 

_Turn back, Ryan._ something muttered in his ear. The voice was eerily familiar but completely unrecognisable to him. _before you forget how to._

And just like that, footsteps rang in his ears, and he was back on the floor in Shane’s apartment, gasping for air. He lay there, terrified, for a few moments, awaiting the pitch black that he was certain would engulf him, but it didn’t arrive. He cracked an eyelid open, and then the other, to see Shane standing, puzzled, directly above him. 

Shane shuddered. Really, visibly shuddered. 

_Thank fuck._

His face twisted slightly in confusion. He took a few steps back, right to the end of the room, where he lingered for a moment before returning to around the place where Ryan was lying, frozen, awaiting the verdict. 

Shane shuddered again. He frowned. 

Ryan pushed himself to his feet, gazed up, desperately searching for some kind of recognition in the man’s face. Some acknowledgement that he understood what was happening, what needed to happen next. 

None came. 

Out of raw desperation, Ryan began to shout. 

“Help me! Shane, please, help me, ple-“

But before he could finish, he collapsed backwards, falling once more into the unending darkness. 

 

Shane was very rapidly running out of excuses. 

The door? A strong gust of wind from a window, or something like that. The sudden bursts of cold? His A.C. playing up. The weird flickering lights that had been going on the previous night? Electrical fault. 

Individually, he could explain them away, no problem. But when he looked at them collectively, things started to look rather odd. 

It wasn’t like he thought he was being haunted or anything even remotely like that. It was just a little strange. 

The week went on. The strange events multiplied, increasing in intensity each time. One morning, he had to wear a hat and gloves dug out of a drawer to prevent himself actually freezing to death. He phoned the A.C company, but a surveyor proclaimed that there was absolutely nothing wrong with his unit.

The night before he was due to resume work, his entire apartment was plunged into darkness. Initially suspecting a blackout, he fished out a torch and wandered towards the corridor that stretched between the individual apartments in the block. But once he made it to the door and cracked it open, he found himself blinking in the artificial light. 

No one else in the building had lost power. He knocked on every door, dazed and completely baffled, in one last desperate attempt to cling to rational logic. 

He found no answer. 

It was four hours before the lights flicked back on again. He sat alone in his apartment, staring at nothing and trying to think. 

Was he going insane? Had Ryan’s death fucked him up so much that he’d started to hallucinate?

How did he make it all just stop? 

Whatever it was that was going on, he wasn’t going to pay it any more attention. He was starting work again; that was bound to keep his mind occupied. And if it didn’t, if the cold and the dark came back once more-

-well, he wasn’t entirely sure if he could cope with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my search history currently:  
> ghosts??  
> synonyms for cold  
> what r ghosts  
> Ryan Bergara wikipedia  
> yahoo answers  
> g ho sots?
> 
> also I recently finished the secret history which is why this is so emo lmaoo

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Kudos and comments are hugely appreciated!


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